


it's so easy to come back into you

by korilove



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future Fic, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korilove/pseuds/korilove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S: "seriously, lydia. come visit me."</p><p>He'd sent it as a joke (okay, not really). Stiles always did. So the last thing he expected to receive back was this text:</p><p>L: "So what is the proposition, exactly?"</p><p>-------</p><p>Or, the one where Stiles and Lydia get their shit together (eventually?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. they don't know you like i do

**Author's Note:**

> So here's another self indulgent future fic, because I love the idea of them still _not_ having their shit together romantically - mostly because I'm a masochist :D.
> 
> Thanks to Polina and Sibele for betaing, as per usual <3.
> 
> The fic title and all the chapter titles are from Marianas Trench; Masterpiece Theatre III for the fic itself. I'll specify which songs when I post a new chapter :)
> 
> I should be posting the chapters relatively close together, just need a bit of editing on the later ones, so keep checking! :)
> 
> As always, please don't use the fic as an example - always use protection people! Do as I say and not as I write!

**S:** " _come visit me :(_ " 

**L:** " _Lol lonely are we?_ " 

**S:** " _i got a weeks vacay the capt is making me take n nothin 2 do._ " 

**L:** " _And I'm your first target?_ " 

**S:** " _nah already checked with scotty, hes busy._ "

**L:** " _Sounds about right. :)_ "

**S:** " _seriously, lydia. come visit me._ "

 

He'd sent it as a joke (okay, not really). Stiles always did.

 

He hadn't actually seen Lydia in a few years, but they kept in touch — she was heading a research lab in Boston and he was a civilian analyst for the 42nd precinct in LA. She was in meetings and scheduling tests and he was going through security footage and phone records to try and pin shoplifters and the local petty drug dealer to the wall. They couldn't be any further away career wise than they had been in high school — she was on top of the pyramid and he was scrounging on the bottom for scraps.

 

Not that he was comparing them. Or complaining.

 

But every time his mind went in that direction, he'd send her a whiny text about how they needed to meet up soon.

 

But they were always met with a reason why she couldn't just drop everything in her life to visit an old friend - best friend? Pack member? Ex? He still doesn't know how to define their relationship, past or present.

 

So the last thing he expected to receive back was this text:

 

**L:** " _So what is the proposition, exactly?_ "

 

He'd stared at it for a least a full minute before it had sunk in that Lydia was considering coming back to California. No, not just California, to LA — where she had no business being and she knew no one, except him.

 

His heart pumps a little faster as he types out a furious reply, trying to be careful of grammar mistakes.

 

**S:** " _well for starters I could show you around the city, there's more than just tv show stages and the glamour of hollywood you know. there's some hidden diamonds in the rough ;)_ "

 

And then he sends her another for good measure.

 

**S:** " _and of course there's always the best chinese take out with a bottle of red wine and awful sitcom reruns on the couch and the shitty view of the LA skyline from my condo. if you're interested._ "

 

Stiles paces as he waits for her response, internally freaking out for 15 minutes until his phone rings back to him.

 

**L:** " _my flight gets in at 9pm pst on Friday. LAX. Don't be late to pick me up._ "

 

Stiles doesn't know if he should pump his fist in the air or pour himself a stiff drink.

 

(He does both.)

 

* * *

 

"She's going to LA?"

 

Stiles nods profusely, but the non verbal communication is lost over the phone. He gives a committal grunt and continues pacing the floor of his kitchen.

 

"To see you?"

 

"Yes! Scott, why else would Lydia come to LA?"

 

"Uh, I don't know? Did she say her lab had any business or?"

 

"No, buddy, she's coming because I invited her." Stiles rubs one of his hands over his face.

 

"Wait, _you_ invited _her_?" Stiles can practically see the look on Scott's face, even though he hasn't been back to Beacon Hills in about a month.

 

"Yep."

 

Scott whistles long and low. "You invited the girl you've been in love with since 3rd grade — who you haven't seen for 3 years — to visit you in your shitty LA condo with no precedent or plan?"

 

"Well, when you put it that way..." Stiles bites his lip.

 

"You're freaking out now, aren't you."

 

Damn it, even over the phone Scott knew him too well.

 

"Yes! For the love of God, Scotty. Yes, I'm freaking out now, happy?" Stiles swings back the rest of his glass of whiskey he'd been nursing that night — less than 24 hours before Lydia was due to arrive.

 

"Yes. It's about time you and Lydia got on track. I'm not happy that you're freaking out about it though."

 

Stiles chuckles darkly. "Thanks buddy. I'm just — you know. Worried she'll expect something like the movie screen views and all that jazz and I'm nervous as hell."

 

Stiles can hear the smile in his best friend's voice when he speaks. "You're worrying too much. Lydia doesn't care about that stuff anymore, dude."

 

"I hope you’re right, otherwise we're both in for a rude awakening by this time tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

Stiles spends his time after work the next day cleaning and recleaning every inch of his condo, then ridiculous amounts of time over analyzing the layout of the rooms.

 

He's never meticulous with how his place looks. Sure, he keeps it clean enough, but it's not exactly _organized_. There's no real method to the madness, but he tries to make it look that way before he leaves for the airport.

 

He shows up an hour before her flight is scheduled to land. He sits on one of benches and fidgets for what seems like hours (in reality it was probably just a few minutes) before his resolve breaks and he buys a $49 ticket to Palm Springs, just so he can get through security.

 

She's definitely worth it.

 

He waits outside gate 47B until passengers start pouring out, and halfway through the crowd of people he spots a flash of reddish hair.

 

His heart plummets into his stomach and he feels like he can't breathe, and then he's meeting green eyes that know his soul better than possibly anyone else in the world, and probably the entire universe.

 

Her strawberry blonde waves are pulled into a loose ponytail, a few pieces hanging in her face. She’s wearing a tall-tale Lydia staple; flower printed dress and cardigan. She looks tired but her lips (oddly void of any lipstick) are drawn up in a glowing smile. Something he's only seen a handful of times since he's known her.

 

Lydia draws up closer to him and stops when she's an arms length away. "How did I know you'd somehow be here before I even got to baggage claim?"

 

Stiles shrugs his shoulders, his feet suddenly uncemented from the floor. "I'm surprisingly predictable." He quips before his arms are wrapping around her. She squeezes back with the same enthusiasm, burying her head in the crook of his neck.

 

"I missed surprisingly predictable." She says before releasing him and heading off toward the exit.

 

Oh, he was in trouble.

 

Stiles trails behind her as they make their way to baggage claim; even in her heels she walks faster than he does. His mind drifts to Lydia's insistence to wear heels, even when not practical. He thinks back to sophomore year, when she was traipsing through the forest in heels.

 

He chuckles a bit under his breath, but doesn't comment.

 

She comes to a stop near one of the conveyors, and Stiles mirrors her stance on her right. There's the hustle and bustle of the busy airport around them; the scuffle of people and continuous announcements for flights.

 

She's got her carry-on slung over her shoulder, but she keeps shifting it. After a few minutes Stiles sighs and pulls the strap off her shoulder, hoisting it up over his own. Lydia laughs lightly.

 

"Surprisingly predictable."

 

Stiles scoffs. "Like you weren't hinting that you wanted me to."

 

"I was not." Her words suggest banter, but her voice is still so light and void of the venom he remembers so well, so he can't bring himself to bite back. Instead he just smiles, shifting closer to her as they wait.

 

There was something disorienting about being around her again — he's hyperaware that her hand is dangerously close to touching his, and even through the crowd of people, his hearing focuses on her breaths.

 

And then her hand does touch his. Specifically her fingers, softly tracing indecipherable markings into his palm. Stiles can feel himself suddenly tense up and then immediately relax as her fingers thread through his.

 

So she really _is_ here just to see him.

 

They wait and watch the luggage belt in silence, holding hands. Lydia's leaning closer and Stiles' heart is hammering. Which makes him kinda feel like a teenage boy boy again; sweaty hands and nerves thrumming in his veins.

 

"Oh, that's my bag." Lydia severs the touch of their hands to point at her suitcase on the belt. Stiles moves to grab it, handing it to her to pull.

 

"Thanks." She smiles before stretching up and pressing their mouths together, surprising Stiles almost as much as she had the first time they'd ever kissed.

 

She lingers at the corner of his mouth, pulling away and searching his face for the answer her lips just asked. Stiles manages to shut his mouth shut after his jaw somehow goes slack.

 

"Uh - surprisingly unpredictable?" He manages after he can wipe of the dumbfounded look on his face, his fingers lingering over his lips.

 

Lydia laughs. "Oh, come on. Like you didn't want me to."

 

Stiles blinks a few times, really wanting to kiss her again, but his senses come back as he realizes they're still in the middle of a crowded airport. Not exactly the time or place to hash this out.

 

"That's so not the point."

 

Lydia crosses her arms in front of her chest. "So you admit it then?"

 

Stiles absentmindedly scratches the back of his head. "Lydia, don't you think we should talk about this somewhere else?"

 

"Sure," She says, turning away from him and glancing around before taking his hand and pulling him along. "This should be better to talk," She continues, as they enter a public bathroom, which is conveniently empty. "Or not talk."

 

Stiles tries to make a noise of protest but Lydia swallows it, pressing him up against the frame of the door (which she then locks).

 

“Lyd-" He tries, but Lydia silences him with another kiss; this time her hands carding through his hair. She pulls away and peers up at him, green eyes soft and somehow still unyielding.

 

He wants to tell her how he's missed her, how his heart still aches when he thinks about her, how he's still in love with her. How he wants to spend days convincing her in excruciating detail that they can make this work, using various tactics.  How there would never — no _could_ never — be anyone for him but her.

 

But instead, Stiles surges forward and kisses her the way he wanted to as soon she'd stepped through the gate; desperate, messy, all in.

 

Lydia makes a small whimper and wraps herself around him when he grasps for her legs, shifting his weight against her and her thighs grip his waist. He stumbles until he finds purchase on the counter of sinks to his right, settling Lydia there as he presses against her core. Their hands are pulling at clothing until his jacket-and-shirt combo and her cardigan and panties are pooled at his feet, Lydia's heels clanking to the floor as her hands shove his jeans down his legs.

 

" _Fuck_ ," He mumbles against her lips as her fingers close around his dick, flicking her wrist twice. She runs her thumb over the head and Stiles shudders — she always had a way of bringing him to a trembling, rambling mess. “I missed you.”

 

She releases him and pushes his upper body away so he can see her face. "No talking. Plenty of time for that later." She breathes before pulling him forward by his shoulders and nudging him in the ass with her heel before their lips crash together again.

 

Any possibility of Stiles taking his time flies out the window, bunching the skirt of her dress up and sinking into her while his hands grip her hips. He feels Lydia's moan in his mouth, vibrating through him and he throws his hand onto one of the mirrors behind them to steady himself as he fucks into her at a relentless pace.

 

The bathroom echoes with broken sobs and slamming of skin; Stiles forgets that he’s in public, and he’s pretty sure Lydia does too. He doesn’t even try to hold back the obscene noises that spill from his lips every time she rakes her nails a little too roughly, every whimper that falls from her lips, every breath and kiss and touch that send him into a reeling, fervent, _spent_ mess.

 

And then her grip on his shoulders tightens, her fingers tearing down until they reach his shoulder blades and she cries out, spasming around him. Stiles pants hotly over her lips and comes seconds later with a swear.

 

They stay like that for a few moments — chests rising and falling steadily, breathing in shared, stale air — before they remember that they're in a public bathroom.

 

Lydia sighs when Stiles pulls away, propping her feet up on the counter in front of her as he bends down to the pile of clothing at his feet. He hastily pulls up his jeans and throws his shirt back on before handing her a bundle of her own clothing.

 

“So,” He mumbles, taking her hand to help her off the counter. “That happened.”

 

Lydia looks up at him before stepping her feet back into her louboutins. “Don’t overthink it, Stiles.”

 

She goes about looking in the mirror to inspect her makeup, and Stiles falters. “O-overthinking? What do you mean? How can you tell I’m overthinking it?”

 

Stiles watches her in the mirror as her eyebrows raise and her gaze shifts to him.

 

He licks his lips and nods. “Right.” He’s the predictable one.

  
Lydia turns back to him and gives him a smirk. “Do the unpredictable thing and just go with it, okay?” She takes him by the hand and leads him out of the bathroom.


	2. i hate to admit it but i missed the war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "This Means War" by Marianas Trench :)
> 
> warnings: mentions of past!stora & stalia, a hint of anti-sterek? it's just a one off comment, though!

He gets as far as the jeep before the obsessive thoughts creep back into his mind.

 

He’s taking her bags and loading them into the back and his mind is _reeling_. He hasn’t seen Lydia in years ( _years!_ ) and he’s already slept with her?

 

Not that they hadn't slept together before, but that had been back in college. So much had changed between then and now, and she's here for a week and he's already slept with her. And knowing his track record, it was probably going to happen again.

 

This was so _not_ going in a good direction.

 

Stiles blows out a sigh before getting into the driver’s seat. He tries not to think about it as he turns the engine over, and pulls out of the parking space.

 

“I can’t believe this car still runs.”

 

Stiles gasps and holds one of his hands over his chest. He can fake disgust, but he's honestly glad for the distraction from his thoughts. “This is not _just_ a car Lyds." His old nickname for her slips out naturally, like it hadn't been awhile since he'd used it. "And do you really think I’d let Roscoe die?”

 

“Okay, I should have said ‘piece of junk’, my apologies.” He quickly looks in her direction to find that she’s smiling — completely betraying her tone of voice. “I can’t decide if your dedication to this car is endearing or just sad.” She jibes.

 

“Ha! Well, I’m sure you’ll let me know when you choose.” He quips, reaching into his back pocket to pull out the parking toll ticket and paying the man at the booth before getting onto the road.

 

They continue down the highway for a few miles in silence before Lydia breaks it. “So, how far is your place?” She questions, pretending to pick at her manicure to feign disinterest. Stiles isn’t fooled.

 

“It’s just downtown, so we’ll be there in 20 minutes, if traffic isn’t terrible.” He says, eyes focused on the road and not sure where she’s going with this.

 

When she speaks again, he realizes she’s leaned over the console and is extremely close to him — he can feel her breath on his cheek. “Good.”

 

The way the word rolls off her tongue he can tell she's got something diabolical and/or sexual in mind. Just when he thought his thoughts couldn't get louder, Lydia's fingers are undoing his jeans. Her chest is weighing down on his thighs, her palm wrapping around his dick.

 

“What are you doing?” He breathes, quietly and as though there were someone who could see what was happening. Her next movement has Stiles’ jaw dropping and words escaping his reach.

 

He’s suddenly enveloped in warmth and softness, his hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white. Lydia pulls off to look up at him, her tongue swirling around her lips. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

 

She flashes him a wicked smile and licks from the base to tip before swallowing him down again, and Stiles has to use every ounce of willpower to keep his focus on the road. He’s incredibly thankful when they come to a set of lights and he has to stop.

 

Lydia doesn’t though — one hand gripping his thigh to steady herself, and the other pumping him quickly with her mouth. Stiles wants to grasp his hand in her hair and thrust up into her movements, allow himself to lose himself in the feeling of it. And for a few moments he does, an “ _Oh my god_ ” falling from his lips, his fingers pulling at the ends of her ponytail before the light turns green.

 

Stiles swears again and speeds his way through the intersection, desperate to get home as fast as possible. It only occurs to him later that it would have been bad for a precinct employee to get pulled over for speeding while his girlfriend blows him.

 

Or ex. best friend. whatever.

 

Lydia pulls off a few times to chuckle at the look on his face, screwed up with pleasure and determination. She presses kisses to his jaw and breathes in his ear while her hand still works him. She giggles and nibbles and kisses her way back down before continuing to suck him off.

 

Stiles finally screeches to a halt in front of his building, unable stand it any longer. He turns off the jeep and he feels Lydia chuckle before she hollows out her cheeks and his breath hitches, slacking back in the seat. He feels the head hit the back of Lydia’s throat and it’s too much, an amplified groan of “ _Ohh,_ ” leaves him as he comes hot and fast.

 

" _Goddamnit, Lydia._ " He swears when she releases him, a smirk on her lips. She pulls him in by the collar of his shirt and kisses him, and it's all Stiles can do to return the pressure. "That wasn't fair."

 

Lydia laughs. "Life isn't fair, Stiles." She retorts, then releases her grip on him. Patting his shoulders, she then hops out of the jeep.

 

Oh he was _so_ screwed.

 

* * *

 

“So, this is it.”

 

Stiles swings open the door of his condo with a push, stowing the keys in his jacket pocket and leaning up against the doorframe. Lydia laughs at him when he flares out his arm, gesturing for her to come in.

 

“It’s,” She pauses, setting down her suitcase against the sofa. She walks through the the living area, bending down to thumb through magazines and mail on the coffee table. “Nice.”

 

Stiles chuckles. “R-really?” He closes the front door and sets down her carry-on by the island. “That’s the last thing I expected you to say.”

 

Lydia straightens up, moving to the other end of the island in his open-concept living space. “I mean, it’s got no color scheme and your taste in furniture is _terrible_ , but the condo itself has great bones.” She quips, her face animated.

 

Stiles looks down and tries not to smile, but fails. Shaking his head, he opens the refrigerator door. "There's the Lydia I know and love." He quips, cringing at his use of words, and desperately hoping she didn't catch it.

 

Who was he kidding, she never missed anything.

 

"You hungry?" He calls back to her, grabbing a beer for himself before peering over the door.

 

"Sure." Lydia's still inspecting the logistics of his condo. She's currently looking at his bookshelf that surrounds the tv; which is mostly pointless since it holds encyclopedias, old textbooks, and a few other books he's picked up in case the need of researching for the pack became a necessity again.

 

But it hadn't. So the books only served as decoration and dust collecting.

 

Stiles pulls cheese from the fridge, bread and wine from the cupboard, pouring Lydia a glass before whipping up his go-to meal. He doesn't even need to tell Lydia that the wine is for her — she snatches the glass off the island and continues with her inspection.

 

He's got the sandwiches in the pan when Lydia calls out "I'm just going to check in with the lab." He looks up to see her pointing to the balcony (which is really just a small ledge with a fence). He nods and continues his cooking.

 

When she comes back in, he's plating the grilled cheeses on the island. "Just in time."

 

Lydia laughs. "Wow, I don't remember the last time I had one of these." She settles onto one of the stools at the island and picks up one slice, the crisp and brown outside crunching under her mouth when she bites into it.

 

"Probably when we all still lived in San Fran." Stiles mumbles, his mouth half full.

 

And unbidden into his mind floods memories of their undergrad years - when he shared an apartment with Scott; and Kira, Malia, and Lydia were across the hall in their apartment. Half the time it seemed like they all lived together, since they were pack. Study sessions in the girls' place, parties in the boys'.

 

Lydia must be reminiscing too, her eyes seem far away until she tries to hide a snort in her lap. "Do you remember when you made these -" She says, waving her grilled cheese in the air, "after my exams in junior year?"

 

Stiles swallows his mouthful before responding. "How could I forget? You thought you'd actually _failed_."

 

"Hey! It was a very valid feeling, Stiles! It was my worst performance in exams ever!" She points the crust of her sandwich at him before taking another bite.

 

"Which means you got an A minus, probably."

 

That earns him the rest of her crust flying at his face. He manages to duck it, though.

 

They chew in silence for a bit, the obsessive thoughts start to ebb their way back into Stiles' mind.

 

"So, are you still all work and no play?" He asks, happy to keep up the small talk and keep his thoughts at bay.

 

"Are you still all play and no work?" Lydia throws back, smirk on her lips.

 

Stiles takes her plate and his, setting them on the counter. "I guess that's fair." He pauses for a moment, leaning his elbows on the counter in front of him. “I mean, I go to work and try to solve the riddle, but sometimes it doesn't just end when I punch out.”

 

Lydia nods, rising from her seat on the opposite side of the island. "I get that. I feel like even if I'm not analyzing something, I've got students or reps I need to talk to." She picks up her wine glass, swirling it's contents around before raising it to her lips. "It's never ending." She says, taking a sip of wine.

 

"This is better than I expected." She says thoughtfully, pointing to the glass before taking a few more sips and mulling it over in her mouth.

 

"Do you think I have no taste, or?" He says, straightening up and crossing his arms.

 

Lydia raises her eyebrows again, but says nothing.

 

"Okay, it was one of Cora's."

 

Lydia snorts. "Is there a Hale you haven't slept with?"

 

"Hmm," Stiles pretends to think about it, his retort on the tip of his tongue. "Derek?"

 

"You think you're funny."

 

"Lydia. I have a proven track record. If there's one thing I am, it's funny."

 

"Sure." She waves him off.

 

A stale silence starts to creep into the condo, and neither of them seem to be able to look at each other. Lydia finishes off her wine, Stiles his beer. It feels like the years of familiarity hang over their heads, but at the same time so much has happened in the last few years. Stiles knows he’s had his fair share of ups and downs, and if he isn’t the same person he was the last time he’d seen Lydia, he doubts that she’s the same. Stiles wonders if they could ever be like those people 5 years ago. Their former selves — who had somehow gotten past all the craziness of the supernatural and loss and stress and ended up somewhere in the middle, together.

 

"We should probably turn in. You're going to be jet lagged and you need all the sleep you can get."

 

Lydia just nods slowly, setting down her glass on the island.

 

Stiles pulls a blanket and pillow from the closet in the hall, re-entering the open space with them still in his hands "I guess I'll take the couch?" His tone lilts up at the end, not entirely sure about his statement.

 

"So this whole thing was an impulse decision I take it?" Lydia takes the bedding from his hands and starts laying it out over the couch.

 

"You know me, if I make a plan I never stick to it."

 

Stiles watches as she turns the couch into a makeshift bed, not realizing he's standing back like an idiot until she's finished, pyjamas in her hand from her suitcase.

 

"See you in the morning." She pats him on the arm and makes her way down the hall.

 

Stiles curses under his breath and follows, turning into the bedroom instead of going to the end of the hall with her.

 

 


	3. at least tonight we still pretend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "Dearly Departed" by Marianas Trench :)
> 
> There is a flashback in this chapter, and there will be a couple more throughout the story !

Lydia's body is exhausted, but her mind is still running a mile a minute. She keeps tossing and turning, unable to keep in one position for too long. It's not that the couch is uncomfortable, it's more that she wasn't expecting to be sleeping on the couch at all.

 

Did she misread their conversations? She was sure Stiles' invitation was a combination of catching up and a booty call, but even he seems not to know what they're doing here.

 

Lydia sighs. She knows deep down what she's doing here, but it's easier to pretend it's just for the premise of sex with someone she knows and trusts. Even if she hasn't seen him in a long time.

 

Her mind drifts to simpler times — back when the most important thing was acing her exams and Stiles was her best friend. When she didn’t have to worry about things that had happened between them, and how it would change their relationship.

 

And then she didn’t have to worry about it at all, because she’d ended it before it had even begun.

 

Lydia sits up, blowing a puff of air up over her face. Sleep obviously was not going to come sitting out here wondering about the boy — or rather, the man — down the hall.

 

Mind made up, she flips up the blanket, swings her legs over the side of the couch, and struts to the bedroom.

 

* * *

  

“This is ridiculous.”

 

Lydia has her feet propped up on the coffee table, slouched on the sofa as she watches “ _How I Met Your Mother_ ”. She’s dressed very un-Lydia-like, (studying for exams will do that to you) in one of Scott’s UC Davis hoodies and black leggings. She’s been here since her last exam; taking the full 3 hours to finish instead of the 2 it normally would have taken her.

 

She and Stiles had been the only two out of their group to be so unfortunate as to be the last ones with exams, three days before christmas. Scott and Kira had taken off last week, Malia had gotten picked up by Cora on her way through earlier in the week, and Lydia and Stiles were leaving in the morning.

 

Since she was all packed, Lydia decided she deserved to use her last night before the holidays to completely unwind; watch mindless television and just veg out.

 

It just so happened that Scott and Stiles’ couch was infinitely more comfortable than hers.

 

“Stiles, your netflix is already set up and your couch is much more comfortable than mine.”

 

“I’m not talking about that!” Stiles throws his hoodie over one of the arms of the sofa and sinks down into the couch beside her. “But we do actually have to talk about that - just because you have a key doesn’t mean you can come and go through our apartment whenever you please.”

 

Lydia ignores him, focusing instead on Ted going into a tangent on the tv.

 

“What I’m saying is it’s ridiculous that you’re watching ahead of me!” Stiles continues, pausing the playback with his xbox controller.

 

“Stiles, you’re going on like you haven’t watched the entire show already.” Lydia snatches the controller from his hands and the show resumes. “You haven’t missed anything.”

 

“I’ve missed your reactions.” He mutters, crossing his arms in front of his chest before mimicking her position, settling his feet up on the coffee table. Scott wasn’t here to deter him from it, so he’d take any and all opportunities.

 

“How was your exam?” She asks him, not looking away from the show.

 

Stiles sighs heavily. “I’m just glad it’s over, let’s put it that way.”

 

“Me too.” She agrees.

 

The show pauses again and Lydia huffs. “What?”

 

She turns to her left and is met with a skeptic look. “You’re glad your exams are over?” Stiles repeats.

 

“Yes.” She rolls her eyes at him trying to find implications behind meaningless data. She starts the show up again, pressing the button a little too hard.

 

“Okay, what’s wrong?” Stiles pauses it yet again, forcing Lydia to look his way.

 

“Nothing. I just want to watch this until I fall asleep and we can take off for home tomorrow. Is that so much to ask?”

 

“Lydia, you’re dressed like a typical college girl, who’s happy for the first time in the history of her existence that a semester is over, binge watching a show I had to force you to watch in the first place. There’s something wrong.” Stiles rattles off.

 

Lydia looks down at her lap, blowing her breath out her nose and closing her eyes before responding. “I just,” She licks her lips, rubbing them together before looking up at him. “I need a night to forget about being a genius and a banshee and pretending that I have my life figured out. I’ll go back to being perfect, well-adjusted Lydia tomorrow.”

 

Stiles nods slowly as he registers her words. “And what does this night involve, other than sitcoms and baggy clothes?”

 

Lydia shrugs her shoulders. This was as far as she’d gotten.

 

Suddenly, Stiles scrambles off the couch and barrels his way into the kitchen. Lydia can hear the fridge door opening and cupboards banging. “What are you doing?”

 

“If you’re going to unplug for a night, you have to do it right!” He calls back to her. “Just — go back to watching the show, you’ll see.”

 

Lydia shakes her head, but does as he says, and lets herself listen to the gang go on about doppelgangers and yellow umbrellas.

 

About 20 minutes later, Stiles reappears in the living room - his arms are full with grilled cheese sandwiches, a bottle of wine and glasses, popcorn and a big bag of skittles.

 

Lydia stifles a laugh and helps him with his armload, setting the glasses down before unscrewing the cap to the wine. “This is how you do unplugging right?” She questions, pouring some into both glasses.

 

Stiles scoffs. “ _This_ is what I managed to come up with on such short notice.” He raises his wine glass, looking at her expectantly.

 

Lydia tries to hide her smile as she clinks their glasses together.

 

They spend the night curled up together on the couch; the sandwiches and popcorn gone, skittles lay scattered from where Lydia missed Stiles’ mouth, the bottle of wine stands empty between the two used glasses. They’ve finished the rest of the season of “ _How I Met Your Mother_ ”, but for at least 2 episodes, Lydia hasn’t been watching the tv.

 

She’s been watching Stiles.

 

She’s got her legs draped across his lap, and he keeps running his hands up and down her calf, stopping at her knee. Her eyes follow the dusty hair of his arms up to where it disappears under his flannel. She’s mesmerized by the way every edge of him seems to jut out somehow; his wrists, shoulders, adam’s apple, jaw, nose. Everything about his appearance makes her feel fuzzy — this is _Stiles_. Messy, unapologetic, split decision maker, babbling, ridiculous Stiles. It wasn’t as if any of that had changed.

 

But something inside her chest had. She wants to reach out and run her fingers through those dark hairs, feel the skin of her palms catch on the 5 o’clock shadow on his face as she pulls him forward and closes this distance between them. Press their lips together for the first time in 5 years and do it again and again.

 

So she does.

 

Stiles makes a small noise of surprise and pulls away from her, his large hands finding purchase on her shoulders. “L-lydia, what are you doing?” His words are shaky, and his breathing is ragged when he speaks.

 

“I don’t know.” She whispers.

 

“Is this part of the unplug program?” He whispers back.

 

“I don’t know.” She repeats, even quieter than before.

 

“Do you at least know if you wanna do it again?” His soft voice floats over her lips as he leans closer, and Lydia answers by kissing him again.

 

The lines of their lips seem to blur together, and Lydia isn’t sure if it’s from the alcohol or the intoxication of being so desperately close to him. She clings onto him like he’s all that’s grounding her, and in reality he just might be.

 

The sounds that escape from his chest only add fuel to the fever that starts in her ribcage and radiates throughout her system — her breaths are stunted and there’s heat in her cheeks. Her entire body feels like it’s buzzing, vibrating and humming from the energy building between them.

 

And then he’s tugging at the hem of Scott’s hoodie and she pulls at the buttons on his shirt. Inside she feels frantic but her movements are anything but. She relishes the feel of his skin under her fingertips, and whimpers when he pulls away from her to pull off her leggings.

 

He’s uncharacteristically quiet, even as he dots every inch of her skin from her ankles to her collarbone with his lips. She doesn’t really register why the silence is what’s causing the jarring in her chest — she would have expected something entirely more _Stiles_ -like.

 

She wonders if maybe he’s worried he’ll say the wrong thing, rather than being speechless.

 

“Stiles,” She tilts his chin up with her index finger and he looks up at her — his lips plumper than usual. The image _wrecks_ her. “Unplug.”

 

He looks at her in stunned silence before he nods. “Okay.”

 

She grasps his shoulders to pull herself up to meet where he’s hovering over her, and grazes his lips with hers. He shudders and makes a small noise of contentment that she feels in her bones, making them shift and dissolve into something completely malleable by him.

 

Lydia sweeps her tongue out across his collarbone and he does it again, the sound of it vibrating through her. “Are we really doing this, Lyds?” He mumbles, his voice soft and wispy.

 

“You aren’t asleep.” She promises into his skin.

 

He grasps onto her a bit tighter, and she swears he whispers back “ _Thank god._ ”

 

Everything blurs together; their words, movements, bodies. Lydia loses sight of where she ends and he begins. It all runs together like rain, separate entities at first that combine into something indescribable. And for a night, the weight on her shoulders lifts and the freedom breathes something new into her chest.

 

But it all ends the moment she wakes up the next morning.

 

* * *

  

Stiles flinches when he feels the mattress dip, but he doesn’t look Lydia’s way at first.

 

He doesn’t pretend to be asleep, exactly, but her cold hands splay over his stomach when she curls up beside him. Even though it’s shocking to the heat under the blankets, it warms something else inside his ribcage.

 

Without speaking, he threads their fingers together and he feels Lydia’s hum on his back. “You _are_ awake.”

 

He turns over to face her, their noses inches from brushing each other. “So are you.”

 

Lydia says nothing. Her hands do the talking for her — smoothing over his skin, dipping lower under his waist. He trembles under her touch but stays quiet — his mind’s still running a mile a minute.

 

“Couch not comfy enough for ya?” Stiles manages, nerves getting the best of him.

 

Lydia scoffs. “I was never intending on sleeping on the couch, Stiles.”

 

His breath hitches in his throat, because she can’t just say things like that. Things like that are like rumors to someone’s reputation; the whispers permanently stick to them, and no matter what they do, the words forever stay etched on the eyes of everyone who spots them. Stiles remembers possibly every word Lydia’s ever said to him — and he’s not about to forget now.

 

Lydia’s hands are pawing at his hips, fingernails grazing sensitive spots she must not have forgotten about. Stiles swallows thickly, his body is reacting to the stimulation, but his head is still buzzing with the nervous energy in his blood.

 

“ _Unplug_ , Stiles.” Lydia’s voice ghosts over his ear, her lips pressing softly to the skin just under it. Stiles jolts back to that hazy night in San Francisco, where she’d said those words to him once before.

 

He comes to his senses, heart thumping wildly as he hooks his legs around hers and hovers over her. “Is this becoming a bad habit for you?” His voice sounds like it’s a million miles away, and a few tones higher than he’d like it to be.

 

Lydia’s teeth scrape against his neck. “I don’t have bad habits.”

 

Stiles returns her favor, rolling his hips against hers in the most miniscule way possible. “Really?”

 

He’s gratified with the gasp she fails to hold back, how her hips mirror his movements and they roll back against him, and the way her voice cracks when she responds “Really.”

 

His eyes focus in on her lips; parted, plump, pursed. He licks his own before he leans closer and whispers “If you say so.”

 

When she tilts up and presses their mouths together, something inside of him snaps. He delves into her, tasting and melding in a furious fashion. She arches up into every touch of his hands, flick of his tongue, drive of his hips.

 

Soon the barriers between them are removed and tangled up into the sheets with them, the bed a mess of tangled limbs and breathy sighs. Stiles loses himself to the feel of her - the overbearing thoughts blurring into the background of his mind as they move together.

 

It’s slower than it’d been before; there’s no frantic pulling at hems and rushing to sink in. The rhythm is steady and every kiss, every meeting of their hips, every whimper, just feels completely and irrefutably _right_.

 

After — when Lydia’s voice reaches octaves he really shouldn’t be able to hear, and their breathing returns to normal — Stiles doesn’t catch Lydia’s lethargic words that she breathes against his chest. He’s too consumed with the pull of sleep, and he obeys the pressure.

 


	4. could i hide in you a while?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the longest chapter yet! but it'll have to hold you over until after Christmas, as I'll be taking a break from posting this until at least the 27th. I hope you all have a lovely holiday!♥
> 
> Fic title is from Masterpiece Theatre III by Marianas Trench.

_Stiles._

 

When Lydia wakes up, the heat she expected to be pooled on the mattress beside her isn’t there. She reaches her arm out to her right and is met with the soft down of the duvet. But before she can be disappointed that he’d left her in the bed alone, she feels a soft breath puff over her stomach.

 

_Oh._

 

Lydia opens her eyes to look down at the bump in the sheets, just as Stiles presses his lips to the skin where her leg and pelvis are joined. She shivers and presses her lips together, her hands reaching down past her waist.

 

She can feel his arms snake around her thighs, his hands gripping the underside of her legs as he kisses softly around her center. Lydia sighs and threads her fingers through the longer parts of his hair at the front of his head.

 

_Now, this was the right way to wake someone up_.

 

His kisses against her growing heat turn slowly into firmer presses with his tongue, teasing and testing around her clit, until he swipes across it, deliberately slow. Lydia knows the sound that escapes her lips is probably ridiculous, but she’s more focused on his movements than superfluous nuances.

 

She rakes her nails over his scalp when he dips inside her for a moment, a little sad at the loss as soon as he licks upward again. As if he reads her mind, he releases his grip on her left thigh, slipping one of his bony fingers into her.

 

_Fuck_.

 

Lydia’s hips buck up, hands grasping on the ends of his hair. She feels, rather than hears, his chuckle before adding another finger, his tongue never leaving the sensitive nub. The combined sensations have her squirming in his hold, her hips shifting back and forth. He moves with her though, everything building up in her chest until her breaths are shallow and Lydia’s sure she’s about to pull out his hair from the root as she rides his face.

 

When he flicks upwards and crooks his fingers into _that_ spot, she cries out, his name falling from her lips. _“Stiles,”_

 

His fingers still inside of her as her orgasm breaks over her in waves. He presses a few kisses, just as soft as before, to her before pulling away.

 

Lydia’s still breathless when he crawls up her body, she peers out from her hooded eyelids to see him peeking out from under the covers — his hair gloriously messy and his lips covered in a sheen from her arousal. It does something funny to her insides, and her hands grasp the sheets where they’d fallen from his head when he’d moved. “Good morning.” He says, eyebrow quirking up playfully.

 

“Mmm,” Lydia moans as she pulls him up to her mouth, the lust she’s still feeling simmering in her belly. “Good morning is right.” She agrees.

 

She can feel where he’s hard against her thigh, but he pulls away from her lips and asks “Want breakfast?”

 

As much as it’s tempting to hook her legs around his hips and flip him over, her stomach claws at her. She nods before kissing him again. Plus, she has a feeling that if she doesn't eat soon, they’ll waste all their energy in this bedroom and she’ll never want to leave.

 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, it occurs to her that she can’t seem to find a reason that would be a bad thing.

 

Stiles pulls away and swings his legs off the side of the bed, pulling on a pair of boxers before the mattress rises. Lydia watches him walk away, her gaze following the movement of his hips.

 

Sighing, Lydia gets up, easily finding one of Stiles’ flannel shirts and wraps herself in it. Her curls are messy and annoying her, so she pulls them out of her face with a hair tie she’d left on her wrist from the night before.

 

When she enters the living space, Stiles already has bacon sizzling in a frying pan, and he’s whisking at a batter that appears to be the start of pancakes.

 

“Is this what you normally have for breakfast on a Saturday, or am I special?” Lydia quips, pulling her phone off the side table where she’d left it the night before. She has a dozen emails and 3 missed calls from her assistant, making her scowl.

 

Stiles doesn’t look up from his mixing, but she doesn’t miss his snort. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

 

Lydia makes her way over to the stove, checking on the bacon. She picks up the flipper on the counter and pokes at a few of the pieces, moving them around the pan.“I do. I just wondered if your cooking habits had changed now that you live alone.”

 

Stiles falters for a second in his stirring, turning his head to look over his shoulder. When he sees her with a spatula, his face wipes of emotion. She watches as his features contort from wonder, to lust, to confusion, to shock, and finally settling on urgency.

 

“Oh-ho ho ho, _no_.” He says, pulling the utensil from her hands. “No way am I letting you anywhere near this stove.” He manages to push her away from the range, and she puts her hands on her hips.

 

“Hey! I am not as terrible as I used to be.” She protests, but Stiles just shakes his head, forcing her to sit on one of the stools around the other side of the island.

 

“The last time you helped me in the kitchen, you almost set my apartment on fire!” Stiles waves the spatula around for effect before flipping a few strips of bacon.

 

“That was 3 years ago.” Lydia huffs, arms crossing in front of her.

 

Stiles laughs at that. “Yeah? Well if you couldn’t handle a kitchen by the time you were 22, you definitely can’t now.” He quips, adding a few more ingredients to his batter before giving it another mix.

 

Lydia’s about to throw out a recount of her last successful meal when her phone rings out. She closes her mouth and swipes her thumb across the screen to answer the call.

 

It’s her assistant again, letting her know that the trials for emporzepan need to be finalized by the middle of the coming week, instead of the next as originally planned. Lydia keeps the phone call short, thanking her assistant before hanging up, her heart thumping a little harder in her chest.

 

“What was that about?” Stiles is pouring the batter into the pan the bacon had been in, which he’s already plated.

 

Lydia licks her lips before responding. “My assistant. I uh — I’m gonna have to go back early.”

  
  


“Oh.”

 

Stiles tries not to let the disappointment escape from him, but he knows it edges out of his response. He stares at the pancakes in the pan, trying to hide his reaction from her.

 

After last night, he felt like they were on a good start to maybe, finally, getting somewhere with the ‘will-we-or-won’t-we’ dance they’ve been doing since high school. It was kind of hard to figure it out when they were living across the country from each other.

 

Lydia’s hands curl around him and she rests her chin on the edge of his shoulder, squeezing him close to her as he melts into her touch. He didn’t even realize she’d gotten up from the island, but he’s grateful for it. “I can still stick around for the weekend.” She says, muffled by the skin of his back when she lifts up onto her tiptoes, pressing her lips to the flesh there as an afterthought.

 

“Mmm,” Stiles hums, flipping over the pancakes in the pan, while his other arm holds her arms tighter around him. “I guess I’ll have to take what I can get.”

 

“So, it’s just like any other weekend then?”

 

Stiles can feel her smile on his skin, and he tries not to let it distract him from the food. “Ha, not exactly." _You have no idea how wrong you are._

 

As he pours the rest of the batter into the pan, Lydia’s lips roam the patch of skin she can easily reach, stretching from the middle of his shoulder blade, up to the base of his neck. Her hands move from his waist to run over his torso, sending chills over his skin. Miraculously, Stiles manages to flip the remaining pancakes before succumbing to it. He swiftly turns around and presses her into the island, all the air in his lungs escaping him in a whoosh.

 

The sight of her in one of his button downs sends bursts of want throughout him, especially since she’s left it open, exposing the edges of her breasts, and leaving her lower body completely naked. Stiles’ hands tug lightly on the front of the shirt, skimming the soft skin of Lydia’s stomach. “Making good use of yo-your time?” She asks, her voice shuddering when his fingers clutch at her hips.

 

Stiles just nods, closing the distance between them by leaning into her body. He brings his hands up and traces the creases around her breasts before smoothing them over the rest of her chest, ragged breaths passing over his ear. He kisses the hollow of her throat, quick and teasing, his arms moving around her back and pulling her closer.

 

Lydia chokes out a moan and he hoists her up onto the counter top, her knees jabbing into his sides. He can feel the fever building between her thighs, and he wants to bend down and taste her again, even though the flavor still lingers in his mouth from earlier.

 

He doesn’t have the chance to though, because her hands are pulling him up by the jaw to seal their lips together. He’s growing harder against the heat of her, her tongue in his mouth and her palms making their way across his lower back before dipping into the band of his boxers.

 

“ _God_ ,” He mumbles against her lips when she drags her nails over the flesh of his ass, making his dick twitch, which she then grinds into. He doesn’t miss the half-snort she lets go, massaging his ass cheeks a little more before hooking her thumbs on the edges of his underwear and pushing them down.

 

Lydia pulls away for a second, a scowl on her face. "Stiles," she chokes out.

 

But then Stiles realizes what the look on her face is for. "Shit."

 

He quickly turns back to the stove, where the pancakes are smoking, the smell of charred food hitting him all at once. He tosses the pan to the back burners and flicks the front burner off, just as his smoke alarm rings out.

 

"Don't-" Stiles warns, but Lydia's already laughing, her hand thrown over her mouth as he swings a dish towel in the air above the alarm, still naked.

 

After a few moments of waving the towel in the air like an idiot, the smoke detector quits beeping. Stiles heaves a sigh and lowers his arms, purposely ignoring Lydia's attempts to hide her amusement as he pitches the dishtowel on the counter.

 

Stiles puts his hands on his hips and faces her, another sigh escaping his lips as she breaks down again. "Alright, get it all out now."

 

Lydia chokes out a few more bursts of laughter before reigning herself in. "I'm sorry. It's not funny."

 

Stiles kinks his eyebrow and moves back towards her until their bodies are flushed together. "It's not?"

 

Lydia shakes her head. "Definitely not."

 

Stiles hands grasp the collar of his shirt that she's still wearing. "Are you sure about that?" He breathes into her ear as he pulls the shirt off her shoulders.

 

"Absolutely." She manages, voice hushed. Stiles smirks as he looks at her, her eyes flitting from his to his eyes, and then back again.

 

Stiles surges forward and picks up where they left off, the burned breakfast forgotten. Lydia’s fingers curl around his biceps as a small whimper leaves her, flicking a switch somewhere in him. Her hands tighten around his arms as he runs the head of his dick through the folds, a stuttered “ _Stiles,_ ” moaned into his mouth.

 

Stiles leans up and presses their foreheads together as he pushes inside, thumbs clutching bruisingly to her hips and Lydia’s fingernails grip desperately to the flesh of his inner arm.

 

He fucks her slowly on the island, the smell of bacon in the air, and the kitchen filled with guttural sounds, shallow breaths, and eloquent curses that fall from his lips.

 

It feels like coming home.

 

After they heat up their decidedly _cold_ breakfast, they retire to the couch for the rest of the day. Stiles queues up where he was in “ _That 70’s Show_ ” on Netflix, and Lydia groans at first, but he knows she secretly watches these sitcoms too.

 

He’s pretty sure it’s a guilty pleasure of hers.

 

They laugh and tease and joke while they’re curled up together, until Lydia decides she needs a shower. Stiles isn’t sure at first if she’s extending an invitation, but then she grabs him by the arm and drags him to the end of the hallway where his bathroom is.

 

It’s probably the longest shower he’s ever had, and he’s not sure he’s any cleaner.

 

Sunday is decidedly more somber than the day before, mostly because it looms over him that Lydia’s leaving the next day. They don’t wake up until past noon, and the majority of their time is spent in his bed, which helps with the tension he feels.

 

He orders Chinese takeout instead of cooking  - which is the result of spending his energy on _better things_ and not having needed to cook this much in a while. Lydia scolds him when he gets up out of the bed with only boxers on to go to the door: “ _Have some decency, Stiles._ ” She tosses him a hoodie on her side of the bed and he just laughs before he shrugs it on.

 

They eat right out of the containers spread out on his bed, and Stiles can’t even be mad that she eats most of the lo mein. He’s determined to hold onto the fluttering warmth in his chest for as long as he can.

 

“I feel bad that you didn't even get to see any of LA.” Stiles mumbles as she's curled against him in the dark. He can feel every rise and fall of her chest, his skin buzzing at every point where they touch.

 

Lydia makes an indistinct noise. “I'm not.”

 

He's sure she feels the way his eyebrow arcs on her back before he pulls way. “Really?”  

 

“Really.” She turns over so that she's facing him, hair flowing out like tendrils around her. “I got what I came to see.”

 

He can't help the smile that spreads across his face before he pulls her closer, kissing her softly.

 

The drive to the airport early Monday morning is _very_ different than the drive from had been, but just as silent. Lydia’s phone lights up the inside of the jeep as she looks through her emails - apparently she’d missed a lot since she landed in LA.

 

Stiles walks with her until they get to security, where she lets go of his hand and hugs him so tightly he can feel his heart breaking. How was he going to survive her going back?

 

“Call me when you land, okay?”

 

Lydia nods against his chest, but doesn’t move for a good 5 minutes. When she does pull away (because she absolutely _cannot_ miss her flight), she tells him “I will.”

 

Stiles watches her walk through through the queue of people until the flash of strawberry blonde is no longer visible, an ache spreading through his chest when she’s finally gone.

 

When Cora’s monthly booty call comes around two weeks later, Stiles doesn’t bother to pick up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems like a good time to let you know there's a happy ending already written?


	5. when did we both get so afraid to speak though?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Wildfire by Marianas Trench :)
> 
> You'll be saddened to know that this is shorter than the rest of the chapters, and also smutless. Honestly I'm still surprised at myself for getting it in there every chapter so far ;)
> 
> Prepare yourself for more flashbacks :)
> 
> hope everyone had a great holiday, no matter what you celebrate ♥

“I can’t believe this is our  _ last _ night together.”

 

Kira’s voice is small, but the genuineness of her words seems to settle into the spaces between them.

 

The four friends are gathered in the living room of Scott and Stiles’ apartment for a few reasons. 

 

Firstly, the girls’ apartment was unbearably empty, as Lydia and Malia were leaving in the morning. Malia was taking off to explore South America with Cora, and Lydia was to board a plane to Boston  — she’d gotten accepted to do her grad years at Harvard. Their things sat in the corner of his and Scott’s living room, because they’d already had their inspection with the landlord. Thus, they no longer had keys to the apartment across the hall, which inadvertently had become an extension of Scott and Stiles’ apartment over the past four years. 

 

Kira was moving into Scott’s room, as they were both staying in the city for grad school. Stiles had finished up his criminal science degree, but wasn’t sure he wanted to continue on with it, mostly because the idea of becoming a cop (being  _ responsible _ ) was a daunting thought.

 

So he was officially sharing an apartment with his best friend and his best friend’s girlfriend - something that at one point may have bothered him a little, but currently was about the lowest thing on his totem pole of problems.

 

Lydia had decided she would be bunking with Stiles instead of trying to fight over the couch with Malia, since the coyote was absolutely notorious for bed hogging. Stiles had merely nodded, suppressing the need to gulp audibly.

 

Secondly, this actually  _ was _ their last night together. The pack would go their separate ways for the first time since they'd broken apart senior year. It was a different kind of parting, that was for sure, but it was still something that felt like an ending.

 

Normally, Stiles loved endings  — in movies at least. They were a time where everything came together, all the loose ends tied up in a final movement to leave the audience feeling that they’d gotten something out of wasting two hours. The guy gets the girl, the gang forages ahead in the face of possible doom, the cliffhangers are explained. 

 

But real life was anything like that. Especially since the ‘gang’ would be broken up, and the ‘girl’ was moving across the country.

 

“Hey!” Malia tipped her beer up to Kira’s wine glass, clinking them together. “Just because it’s our last night  _ here _ , doesn’t mean it’s the last one ever.”

 

Scott breaks out into a smile, raising his beer too. “I don’t know how I would have made it without you guys.”

 

Lydia scoffs, but there’s a small smile on her face too. “You would have been fine without us, Mr. True Alpha.”

 

Scott shrugs but the smile stays intact before he takes a drink. Stiles gives a jerk of his head, knowing Scott would understand it to mean that he agreed with Lydia.

 

“I don’t know if we could have made it without you, buddy.” He claps Scott on the shoulder before rising up off the couch, heading back into the kitchen for another beer.

 

It might help him from staring longingly at the waves of red that would disappear in the morning. 

 

* * *

 

“Do you…?”

 

Stiles doesn't finish his sentence, courage failing him in the final seconds.

 

He'd wondered his entire life if maybe she’d ever feel the same way he did. Of course, the way he loved her had changed and shifted from something so juvenile, to something that felt bigger than it had been before. It was still all encompassing, but he wasn't selfish in his love for her anymore. 

 

Except for possibly this moment. This was the last night  — the last chance to know if after a 10 year crush that became fierce friendship, and then swirled into complications of sexual benefits. He needs to know if there were feelings underneath all of this. He needs to know if Lydia loved him back, or at the very least,  _ could  _ love him back. 

 

So, as she lays with her back curled beside him in his tiny bed, he whispers the question  — desperately needing the answer, but not being brave enough to say it too loudly, or finish it. 

 

And then it seems like forever since he’s spoken, the words had been so quiet that maybe he'd just thought them. 

 

Lydia lightly squeezes his fingers after a few moments, and he knows she's heard him. His stomach plummets, and his face burns with the knowledge. She was sticking to the words she’d said when they started this; “ _ this is just sex. _ ” He finds it ironic that in high school he'd been frantic for her to know his feelings, and now that she did, he felt frantic to be away from here. 

 

But it probably didn't matter much, since she was leaving tomorrow. They could wake up tomorrow and pretend nothing had been said, like he hadn't just ruined everything and they could continue being friends. Or at least, end all of this without it being awkward. 

 

“ _ Yes _ .”

 

She whispers her words even quieter than he had, as if she's afraid of it. As if the thought will break her. Stiles’ heart flutters and he pulls her closer, buries his face in the crook of her neck. He wants so much more than this; he wants to wake up with her every morning and hold her hand, he wants to kiss her in front of someone else, he wants to be there when things get hard. 

 

Stiles wants all of her with every fiber of his being. And even though an affirmation is far from  _ everything,  _ he's grateful for what she has given him. 

 

“But I'm still getting on that plane tomorrow.” She says, her voice small, even as she settles into him. 

 

“I know.” Stiles wasn't naive enough to think that she'd stay. Lydia had so many things that  she wanted  — hell, that she  _ needed  _ _ — _ to do, and there was no way she'd let anything hold her back. 

 

Not that Stiles would try. 

 

If there was one thing he’d learned, there was no taming Lydia Martin. One would ruin the point of her if they tried. 

 

Lydia presses her lips softly to his palm and the nuzzles into it, making his heart ache. He missed her already, if it were possible to miss something tangible in front of him.

 

He spends the rest of the night decidedly  _ not _ sleeping, instead he watches her chest rise and fall steadily, commits the moments to memory as he holds onto her for dear life. 

 

He wishes so hard he could pretend it's not the end. 

 

When the darkness starts to give way to dawn, Lydia soundlessly wriggles from his grasp and gets out of bed. 

 

She gathers her things and Stiles can't watch, he'd be watching something he'd never had fall apart in front of him. 

 

Before she leaves, she turns him over and kisses him fiercely, and he hears everything she can't say through their pressed lips. 

_ “I love you.”  _

_ “I'm sorry.”  _

_ “I'll miss you.” _

 

Stiles already does. 

 

* * *

 

_ “Is this the end?” _

 

The hushed whisper wakes Lydia from a dead sleep, her body shooting straight up in her bed. Panic floods her mind, easing into her bloodstream as the words that had been spoken out through the buzz of voices constantly swirling around her, and Lydia has to fight the urge to scream. 

 

It hasn't happened in a long time, at least a few months since she'd last predicted a death, but it was still something she couldn't get used to. To hear someone's last words or thoughts was sobering, snapping her back to the moments she'd lost important people - screamed Allison’s name, felt Aiden die, and predicted the deaths of her best friends. 

 

Lydia tries to labor her breathing and suppress the weight in her throat, but it's  _ so _ strong. The poor soul whose death was imminent must be in her building, making it more intense than the last time. 

 

Before she even realizes what she’s doing, Lydia's hands grasp onto her phone and clumsily find Stiles’ number. 

 

The line rings a few times before he picks up - which makes sense, since it’s early morning in Boston, meaning it's  _ earlier _ morning in LA. 

 

“Lydia?”

 

His voice is thick with sleep and confusion, and Lydia's chest aches with a mix of want, longing, and a twinge of despair. She’s much too focused on her breathing techniques to respond to him, but he doesn't hang up. 

 

“Lyds, what's wrong.” His voice comes again, but his alertness has changed from ‘groggily-and-reluctantly awake’ to ‘you-absolutely-have-my-full-attention’. 

 

She just shakes her head, screams still on the tip of her tongue. Logically, she knows he's probably still sleep stupid, but she needs him to figure it out without her having to say it. 

 

“Uh okay, is it nightmare related?” His voice pauses on the other end, giving her a space to give him some indication. 

 

“Work related?” He pauses again, and Lydia stays silent. 

 

“Um, family related?” 

 

Still silence. 

 

“Oh, fuck. Lyds, is it banshee stuff?”

 

Lydia nods and makes an affirmative hum before biting her tongue again, still not sure that the urge has passed. 

 

“Shit.” The phone speaker baffles from his sigh. “What can I do? How do I help you?” He almost sounds pained through the phone, and suddenly Lydia wishes she could see his face  — as if that would somehow make it better.

 

“Just - keep talking.” Lydia chokes out, her voice harsh. 

 

And he does. 

 

He tells her about the time he and Scott got lost on their way home from the bars (they apparently thought walking home was a good idea in their drunkenness). He tells her the story of how they found out his dad and Scott’s mom were dating. He tells her stories about the cops in his precinct - one who growls every time he talks, one who stares hopefully at him over the top of the computer screen. 

 

It's about an hour later when his speech slows, and the weight in Lydia's larynx has subsided. She just listens to his breaths slowly get softer, while wishes she could be wrapped around him and fall back asleep by his side. 

 

“Thank you.” Lydia manages, her voice still scratchy with words she wants to say but won't allow herself to. 

 

She can hear the smile in his voice when he responds, lethargic and slow. “You're welcome.”

 

“Night, Stiles.”

 

“G’night, Lydia.” He mumbles before she hangs up. 


	6. how'd we ever go so long without it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Cross My Heart by Marianas Trench :) (honestly listen to it and tell me it doesn't fit ahahaha)
> 
> If you follow me on tumblr, this is the phone sex scene I was complaining about a few weeks back ;)

**S:** " _miss me?_ "

**L:** “ _No._ ”

 

Stiles reads it as a yes.

 

**S:** " _hows work?_ "

**L:** “ _... You don’t actually want to know about that, do you?_ ”

**S:** “ _no i wanna know what ur wearing_ ”

 

Stiles stares at the LED screen of his phone until he receives a reply a few minutes later.

 

**L:** “ _Start using proper grammar and syntax and maybe I’ll tell you._ ”

 

Stiles laughs, an obscene thing that’s a cross between a chortle and a choke. Frustrated  — because who else but Lydia Martin would need perfect grammar while _sexting_? — Stiles taps his phone a few times until the line is ringing.

 

Lydia answers just before it’s about to go to voicemail, a hushed “Hang on,” reaching his ear through the speaker.

 

There’s some scuffling on the other end, muffled voices until eventually silence. Stiles waits not-so-patiently with his phone pressed up to his ear as he stretches out further on his couch.

 

Finally, Lydia speaks. “Stiles -”

 

“What are you wearing?” Stiles cuts her off, his right hand lingering very close to the hem of his boxers.

 

“Stiles,” Lydia hisses. “I’m at _work_.”

 

“ _Lydia._ ” He practically begs, the whine apparent in his voice. “What are you _wearing_?”

 

Stiles hears the speaker crackle from her sigh, victory dancing in his veins. “I’m wearing a white blouse, tailored blazer, and a pencil skirt.”

 

“What color?”

 

He can practically see her smirk in his mind, but she doesn’t chastise him about it. Probably a good thing too, since he’s hard just thinking about her in a skirt.

 

“The blazer is black, and my skirt is dark red.” Lydia breathes.

 

“Wearing heels too, I’m guessing?” He adds, secretly hoping so.

 

“Yes.”

 

When Stiles doesn’t answer right away, Lydia’s voice comes again, decidedly _not_ patient, or particularly even for that matter. “And you?”

 

“Uh - well, I’m wearing a blue hoodie and I _was_ wearing jeans.”

 

Stiles catches the moan Lydia fails to choke back. “Was?”

 

“Mhmm”

 

The heavy breathing on the other end is his only immediate reply, so he takes the liberty of dipping his hand into the waistband of his underwear and curling his fingers around his dick. “Where are you, Lyds?”

 

Another heavy breath.

 

“I’m in a public bathroom in my building, you asshole.” The venom is back, but she whispers the words, so she’s not completely opposed to this. Stiles smirks.

 

“Be more specific.”

 

Lydia breathes another heavy sigh, like it’s a chore. “I’m the last stall in a bathroom on one of the top floors, but it’s by no means _discreet_ , if that’s what you’re wondering.”

 

Stiles huffs a laugh, still slowly jerking himself with long, lazy strokes. “Mm, not exactly, but it helps. Where are your hands?”

 

“They’re-” She pauses for a moment, and he can hear her wet her lips with her tongue. “One is holding my phone, and the other is -” She sounds strained. “resting on my thigh.”

 

Stiles smiles. He could definitely work with this.

 

“Tell me how it feels.”

 

“My thigh?” Lydia deadpans, though her voice is hushed. A silent ‘ _really?’_ is hanging in the air, but Stiles ignores the sarcasm and nods. Then he swears at himself, reminded that she can’t _see_.

 

“Yes.”

 

“It’s soft,” Stiles groans.

 

“I - Stiles this is weird.” Lydia chokes out, and Stiles’ hand stills inside his underwear. He immediately feels incredibly awkward.

 

“I know, I just fucking _miss_ you.”

 

“You miss _fucking_ me or me in general?” Stiles doesn’t miss the inflection in her voice, and how she’s probably giving him the most knowing smile.

 

“Both.” He admits, feeling a little better about the situation.

 

Silence.

 

“What if - ” Stiles breaks off, frustration edging into his voice. He’s still _hard_ , goddamnit. “Lyds, what if you imagine it’s my hand?”

 

He hears her breath catch.

 

“ _Yeah_ , you’re so soft, Lyds.” He waits, gauging her reaction. He hears a hitch in the intake of her breathing, which she then slowly releases. It comes out shaky, as if she’s trying desperately hold onto control. She doesn’t say a word though, and Stiles takes it as a tentative form of permission to continue.

 

“ _God,_ If I were there right now-”

 

“Tell me.” Lydia whimpers.

 

“I’d kneel in front of you” Stiles flexes his hand, still wrapped around himself. “Kiss the inside of your thigh, just to drive you a little crazy.”

 

Lydia murmurs a noise of ascent, sparking the fuel in his gut to continue.

 

“I’d reach up and feel you through your underwear -” Honestly, Stiles is surprised he actually says that with a straight face, and more surprised Lydia doesn’t scoff at him. “Can you feel for me?” He asks, lower and tentative.

 

“Mm, I can.” Lydia mumbles back, before a small moan is coming from the speaker.

 

“Are you wet for me, Lyds?” He wonders out loud, his hand beginning to move again.

 

Lydia gasps, but doesn’t answer.

 

“ _Lydi-uh._ ” Stiles sing songs.

 

“Hmmph, _yes._ ” He can tell she’s gritting her teeth when saying it, and he’s going to have to work hard to pry every admission from her. Which only makes it that much more fun, and worth it.

 

“Then I’d hook my fingers through the band and pull your underwear off.” It pains him a bit to imagine this — he can see it plain as day in his head, but she’s _so_ _far away_.

 

Lydia remains silent, save for her breaths, which have become shorter and more airy.

 

“Take them off, Lydia.” Stiles directs.

 

Lydia huffs. “Fine”

 

There’s some crackling over the phone as she shifts, he can hear her heels click against the flooring of the bathroom. “There.”

 

“Did you do it?”

 

Lydia clicks her tongue in annoyance. “Yes, of course I did Stiles, get on with it.”

 

“Good.”

 

Stiles feels triumphant, the impatience a true tell that he’s gotten under her skin, in a good way. He flicks his wrist faster as he speaks again.

 

“Then I’d rub my thumb into your clit, make you fall apart before tasting you.” Lydia lets out a quiet whine. “Are you touching yourself, Lyds?”

 

“Mhmm.”

 

The sound goes straight to his groin, and he can’t stop the low grunt that leaves his chest. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

 

“ _Stiles_ ,” His name is soaked in lust and frenzy, the need to come hanging over both of their heads.

 

“And one of my hands would curl around your thigh, and you’d tug at my hair when I fuck a finger into you.”

 

A broken sob escapes Lydia, even muffled over the speaker it’s pretty loud in Stiles’s ear. Her breath comes in pants and just the thought of her — biting her lip to try to keep herself quiet, fingers inside herself while leaning against the wall — has Stiles frantically pulling at himself until similar sounds are spilling from his lips too, coming all over his fingers.

 

They just listen to each other breathe for a few minutes, the after-glow soaking in before Stiles laughs awkwardly.

 

“So,” He says. “That was-”

 

“Great, actually.” Lydia cuts him off, before they both dissolve into fits of laughter.

 

When they fall silent again it’s not awkward, there’s just this deep rooted sense of _longing_ that Stiles feels in the pit of his stomach. How he’d survived the past three years of her being on the east coast he really didn’t know.

 

“I have to get back to work now.” Lydia mumbles, and he doesn’t miss the way she sounds like she doesn’t want to hang up, more than anything.

 

“Okay.” He whispers back before she hangs up.

 

* * *

 

“So, I have a conference in San Francisco this weekend.”

 

Lydia’s voice sounds tinny through the speaker of his cell, which is currently nestled between his jaw and shoulder as he watches surveillance video at work. He might be breaking a dozen rules by having his phone, but he’s being transferred next month, so he isn’t really worried about the captain finding out.

 

Not that he’d be much worried about it anyway, this precinct would get nothing done on the analyst side of it weren't for him.

 

He tends to spend a lot of time on the phone with Lydia at work, whether it’s through texting or the occasional phone call. The time change and long distance is really getting to him. If they don’t have these conversations while he’s at work, he may not actually talk to her all day.

 

Which just doesn’t feel like it’s an option at this point.

 

God he has it so bad, and he still doesn’t know how they’re supposed to define their relationship. If you can even call it that.

 

“Oh yeah?” He mumbles back, not really paying attention. He’s staring at train logs on a computer screen, and he blinks a few times to try to clear the fuzziness in front of him.

 

“Stiles.”

 

Sighing, he pauses the video log. “Yes?”

 

“You didn't hear me, did you?” He can hear her annoyance over the speaker and he quickly wants to change it.

 

“Of course I did. You said you have a conference?” Stiles tries, knowing he caught at least that much of the conversation.

 

“Mhmm. And the company paid for a suite at the Drisco-”

 

“Wait, your conference is in San Francisco?” Stiles sits up with this knowledge, suddenly very awake.

 

Lydia scoffs in annoyance and he suspects she rolled her eyes. “That's what I led with, Stiles.”

 

Stiles breaks out in a grin, before remembering he’d been caught. “I know.”

 

He can practically hear the eyeroll. “ _Suure._ ”

 

Stiles knows what she’s after, of course. It’s essentially the same offer he’d sent her way four months ago when he’d asked her to come to LA. Except this would be on her terms; her business time, her company’s funds, her _invitation._

 

So instead of assuming, Stiles waits.

 

Eventually Lydia sighs, as if she’s angry that he’s making her say it. He imagines her, sitting in her unknown apartment with her hair up, legs stretched out on her couch, and a scowl on her face.

 

“Do you want to come?” she says finally.

 

Stiles can feel the smirk spread across his face, but keeps his tone light. “What’s the proposition, exactly?” He says, echoing her words from last April.

 

Lydia clicks her tongue, making the image in his head even stronger. “Stiles, if you make me go into details, consider the invitation rescinded.”

 

Stiles laughs, trying to hide his failed attempt of calling her bluff. “Sure, I'd love to spend the weekend with you living in _sin_ , how nice of you to ask.”

 

Lydia makes a pleased noise that sounds crackled through the speaker. “I'll text you the room number when I check in. See you on Friday, Stilinski.”

 

He doesn't even have the chance to respond before the line goes dead.

 


	7. i got a new disease in me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Masterpiece Theatre III by Marianas Trench :)
> 
> Special thanks to Felipe for doing a quick read of this chapter for me while my usual betas were busy with finals!

When he _finally_ gets off work on Friday, Stiles is a bundle of nerves.

 

Lydia has been purposely ignoring his calls and texts since she’d called on Monday. He isn’t sure if it’s punishment for trying to drag the words out of her, or if she’s in a volatile mood. Either way, Stiles’ nerves are on high alert, strung out and holding in pent up energy during the hour flight to San Francisco.

 

The last time he’d been there, he’d been living with Scott and Kira and meddling into databases on his computer where he shouldn’t have been — which eventually had led to him being hauled off to the 21st precinct downtown and them forcing him into a job.

 

Well, it turned out to be better than spending a few years in jail, at least.

 

He’s still high strung when the plane lands, when usually flying doesn’t bother him. Thank god he’d have an outlet to get rid of all this pent up energy. At least he was hoping so.

 

When he turns his phone off airplane mode, he gets the text he’d been waiting for all day:

 

 **L:** _“room 239”_

 

Stiles rubs his hands over his face when he reads it, a frustrated hum vibrating in his chest. She’s still freezing him out and it’s driving him insane.

 

The cab drive to the Drisco takes at least 15 minutes more than it should have — something he should have expected on a _friday night_ , especially a Friday night in the middle of August — so 3 hours after he gets off work, he finally arrives.

 

Stiles drums his fingers on the check in counter in the lobby, frantic and impatient. He _might_ snap at the attendant (okay who was he kidding, he was downright rude), but the man hands him his key fairly fast and he’s able to get up to the second floor pretty quickly.

 

He fumbles with the door key a few times and his heart is pounding and his limbs are nearly shaking by the time he enters the room.

 

The room is dark, only one light shining through it from another room to his right. Stiles drags his suitcase through the door and abandons it in the pitch back living area before turning the corner into the bedroom.

 

Lydia’s laying on the king size bed; a scientific journal laid out in front of her. Her hair is pinned up in a messy bun, her curls popping out at random against her crown. Just seeing her is enough to expel all the air in his chest, but the fact that she’s wearing nothing but a matching red bra and panty set makes it worse.

 

_Fuck._

 

Lydia turns her head, a smirk on her face; he must have made some sort of choking noise that alerted her to his presence. Or worse, he’d spoken the curse out loud.

 

When she speaks she rolls over off of her stomach and feigns an air of indifference that’s so reminiscent of the Lydia he used to know it’s a bit jarring. “So you found the place okay, I see.”

 

Stiles swallows in a manner of response. She was really taking his ‘ _weekend of sin_ ’ comment to heart.

 

He manages to shrug out of his jacket, but his feet won’t move from where he stands at the end of the bed. Lydia’s smirk doesn’t fade as she gets up and makes her way over, stopping right in front of him. Her eyebrow kinks as her hands find their way to the hair tie on her head, which she pulls out. Stiles watches her hair fall loosely around her and he wants to reach out and tangle his fingers in the strands, but all he can seem to do is lick his lips.

 

The smugness on her face grows and she leans forward, pressing a kiss to the base of his neck. Stiles shudders but still doesn’t move, his breathing uneven and shaky.

 

“What’s the hold up, Stiles?” Her words blow over his ear and he shivers again.

 

He’s pissed, if he were going to be honest about it. Not at her, at the situation. How he’s let it go on until now. The last few days had been absolute torture, in the form of his mind running wild. Is she ignoring him to build up anticipation, or is she seeing someone else too? The thought has crossed his mind more than once in the past few months of this dance they’ve been doing.

 

What’s worse is that he could’ve ended all of that before it had even started by just being upfront with her when she came to visit him in LA.

 

The jealousy and spite rises in his throat like bile, and he chokes to keep it down.

 

But instead of telling her any of this, Stiles grasps her face in his hands and crashes their lips together.

 

Lydia hums a content sound of approval, because as much as he’s the one taking action, she’s the one who’s in control.

 

Her tongue is sharp against his, contradicting with the sweet flavor of wine she must’ve had earlier. Her hands are busy shedding him of his clothes, while he marvels at the feel of lace under his palms.

 

She breaks away from his lips to kiss her way down his chest, nipping at the edges of his boxers as she slides onto her knees. “ _Fuck, Lyds._ ” He swears when she curls her tongue around his dick, her fingernails grasping at his hips.

 

He doesn’t miss her laughter before his cock disappears into her mouth, and all of his anger and resentment end up swirling into the frenetic energy and lust now flooding his system. He buries a hand into her hair and loses himself in the feeling, hips matching her head’s movements.

 

Stiles could let her continue to suck him off until he’s stuttering and shaking, but that’s not what he wants right now. That was something for a part of his ego that wanted to be stroked, pun intended.

 

No, he wanted to give Lydia what _she_ wants.

 

So when she releases him for a moment, a grin on her lips that makes his insides squirm, he pulls her up to his level and flips her onto the end of the bed in front of them.

 

A small noise of surprise falls from her chest, along with whatever oxygen had been in her lungs. “I wasn’t finished.” She quips.

  
  


“Neither was I.” Lydia hears him crack back, settling between her thighs. He runs his thumb over her clit through the lace, and Lydia can't bring herself to care that she's losing the grip on the situation. Four months without this were too long.

 

Instead of ridding her of the lace she’d worn for the sole purpose of him ruining, he pulls them to the side and flattens his tongue over her center. Lydia laughs, a cross between something hateful and pleading. Normally she could appreciate oral, but she just wanted to get on with it. Have him fuck her senseless and enjoy the roughness of it. There was plenty of time later to relish in soft pleasures like this.

 

Lydia jabs her heels into the fleshy sides of Stiles’ torso, successfully getting him to pull away for a moment. “Get on with it, Stiles.”

 

He doesn’t listen though - his hands still grip her hips in a bruising way and he lashes at her with a furious pace. It’s not long before she’s on the cusp of coming - the combination of it being so long since someone else _touched_ her and the bite in Stiles’ ministrations has her body taut and her breaths shallow.

 

So when he suddenly stops, the bitter whine that leaves her is a fearsome thing. “Stiles.” She barks his name like an order, venom leaking out everywhere. Her hands are clenched in the bedspread and she wants to throw something.

 

“Hmm?” Stiles moves away and sucks a kiss onto her right thigh, only momentarily distracting her. He’s making power moves in the game they’ve been playing, just as he had been all along. She simultaneously loves and hates him for it.

 

“Don’t make me say it, Stilinski,” She bites, using his last name in an attempt to let out the toxins in her bloodstream.

 

“Say what?”

 

She’s going to kill him.

 

She props herself up on her elbows to look at him properly, honing her features into all of the malice she can muster. “Make me come. _Now_.”

 

Apparently it’s good enough, because his warmth is back on her clit, expelling all of the air out of her lungs and causing her to fall back on the mattress. Seconds later she’s crying out, a hateful thing that stutters out of her and echoes in her ears.

 

Stiles’ tongue is still rough as he continues to lap at her, but he’s careful to stay away from the places she’s overly sensitive. She barely registers when he pulls away, her limbs and mind a bit fuzzy from climax.

 

His lips press harshly into every inch of her skin as he crawls over her; marking her hips, worrying at her collarbone, biting into her neck, until it finally ends with a wreck of a kiss on her lips. Teeth crashing and pressure bruising, Lydia can barely keep up with the force of it.

 

She somehow finds the strength to flip them over so that he’s the one pinned to the bed, but she doesn’t feel any more in control. He’s a livewire under her - his hands rule her with every frantic movement, the fury of it has a dizzying effect. Lydia only knows what to do next from his lead; his fingers finally tearing through the fragile lace of her panties before the material is tossed on the floor. She can’t help the small cant of her hips and the whimper that vibrates in her chest.

 

Stiles shifts his hips up and slides into her, her hips stunting with the pleasure of it. They both seem to revel in the feeling for a moment, before Lydia shifts up again with the frenzy of needing more of him.

 

She’s reeling with all of the conflicting actions — his thrusts are soft and yielding, but his touch and mouth are rough with desperation. His hands are everywhere; bruising her hips, grasping her shoulders, clenched in the ends of her hair. He mutters words she can’t hear as he worries at her neck, but they almost sound like pleading prayers.

 

The pleasure and heat starts to pools faster in her gut, Lydia’s pace quickens along with her heart rate. Then, Stiles raises his lips up from her neck and breathes into her ear, “Come for me Lydia, _please_.”

 

The plea collapses inside her and her body obeys, a softer moan of gratification coming from her as she falls apart. Stiles mumbles more words of thanks into her skin with a softness that’s baffling before his thrusts falter, stuttering her name as he comes.

 

He kisses her reverently as they come down off the high of orgasm, Lydia falling off to the side beside him onto the still made bed. She doesn’t want to lose contact with him, so she stays close even as the kiss dissolves. Her skin is sticking to his from the perspiration but she doesn’t care, she just buries her head further into the crook of his neck.

  
At some point Stiles shifts and pulls the sheets up over them, but Lydia still doesn’t roll away from him. The soft puffs of his breath on her face eventually lull her into a sweet sleep she hasn’t had since LA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waggles eyebrows*
> 
> just one chapter and a small epilogue to go! :)


	8. from stumble to stable, ever yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Who Do You Love? by Marianas Trench :)
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this guys, work kinda exhausted me after the Boxing Week sales (those are about as nuts as black Friday in Canada!) Here is the last chapter of this monster fic that has been so fun to write, and so fun to see your reactions to!

Stiles is woken up the next morning by the hotel’s wake up call for Lydia. The phone rings out, shrill in its abruptness into their quiet reverie. Lydia makes a pained groan before she rolls over to answer it. He smirks into the pillow at the forced politeness that edges out in her voice before she slams the phone back down on the receiver.

 

Instead of getting up though, Lydia wraps herself around Stiles. Her arm slings over his torso, her legs weave in between his and she lets out a small sigh of contentment. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, and a feeling of guilt flooding through him; as if it were deceiving her to actually be awake, to see her without the walls she normally had up. After a few moments that seem like hours of indulgence — his own or Lydia’s, he isn’t quite sure — he breaks the silence. 

 

“Are you getting up or?” He mumbles into the pillow.

 

“Hmmph.” Lydia groans before untangling herself from him, leaving his back cold.

 

Stiles goes back to sleep as he hears her start the shower - only to be woken up a few minutes later by an insistent knock at the door.

 

Stiles ignores it at first, assuming the housekeepers wouldn’t be around yet. Someone probably just had the wrong room.

 

But the knocker just continues, and the sound grates at his nerves. Stiles flings himself out of the bed with huff, hastily pulling on his boxers before stumbling to the door. Lydia’s voice in the back of his head shouts at him to put on more clothes, but he still can’t be bothered.

 

He pulls the door open with a little more force than normal, his anger peeking out. He squints out into the strain of brightly lit hallway, taking in the stranger who interrupted his sleep. It’s a woman - around his age, a few inches shorter than him. Her dark hair is pulled into a high ponytail near her crown, the strands so long Stiles can’t see where it ends. Her face has a look of impatience on it before she takes in his appearance, which immediately contorts into confusion when it becomes obvious she doesn’t know him, and then settles into embarrassment.

 

“Uh, sorry. I thought this was my boss’ room.” She offers him a half smile, clearly uncomfortable.

 

Stiles kinks an eyebrow, shutting the door a little to try to hide his nakedness and alleviate the awkwardness. “Who’s your boss?” 

 

The woman laughs nervously. “Lydia Martin?” She lilts up at the end, as if she were unsure.

 

Stiles bites back a laugh. “She’s in the shower.” He jabs his thumb back towards the inside of the room, watching the woman’s eyes go wide. Stiles turns around and lets the door swing further open in lieu of letting her in as he heads to the bathroom.

 

“Lyds!” He taps on the bathroom door and leans his ear on the cool wood. He gets a muffled shout as a response, something that sounds enough like his name that he’s satisfied. “Your assistant is here!”

 

He turns back to the assistant, who looks bewildered to say the least. “You can wait in here if you want.”

 

She slowly nods. “O-kay.”

 

Stiles goes back to bed, but his brain is awake now. Cursing, he turns over a few times to try and get comfortable again, but it’s obvious that the bed feels empty without Lydia in it with him.

 

“Who  _ is _ he?”

 

Stiles catches the assistant’s words when Lydia exits the bathroom. There’s a long pause, and he imagines the look on Lydia’s face as she scrambles to come up with an explanation. What story would she tell? The truth  — he’s an old friend who may or may not be an ex, and possibly the love that got away? Or would she tell a lie  — a stranger she picked up at a bar last night, regular booty call who lives in the area?

 

He strains to hear her hushed response. “That’s Stiles.”

 

What does  _ that _ mean? Stiles is suddenly desperate to be in the other room, to see the look on the assistant’s face, to see the silent conversation between them so he could piece together the meaning. That’s when he realizes something.

 

Lydia didn’t have to explain the situation, because her assistant  _ knows _ about him.

 

Stiles isn’t sure if he should be happy or worried about it.

 

* * *

 

Stiles spends the rest of the day on his laptop while Lydia’s at the conference. He’s supposed to be looking for a link in a case, but he can’t seem to focus on it. He tries to work for a few hours before giving up and deciding it’s a lost cause.

 

So instead, he orders room service (complimentary, thanks to Lydia’s lab) and binge watches something mindless on netflix.

 

Lydia finally gets back after dinner, and she talks his ear off about the imbeciles at different companies who disagree with her. Stiles agrees and rubs her shoulders as she vents, and he can feel the passion she has for her work through every word and movement of her body.

 

Eventually she succumbs to the feel of his hands, twisting his his arms and kissing him softly. He relinquishes any and all control to her and they fuck a few times - on the bed, against the glass doors surveying the balcony, and once more in the shower before they retire to spooning beneath the sheets of the kingsize.

 

“Are you seeing someone else?”

 

Stiles can't stop the selfish words, they just come out as he's thinking them. He knows she owes him nothing, it's not as if they ever defined this as anything. Still, something in his gut twists at the thought of her being with someone else, pulling the sounds he was able to from her lips, be wrapped up in her like he was now, be able to listen to her soft breathing. It turns his stomach and the memory taste of bile is present at the back of his throat. 

 

“I was.” Lydia admits. Stiles swallows the aftertaste in his mouth. 

 

She turns over to face him through the dim lighting in the room, her eyes finding his. “But that was before you invited me to LA.”

 

That was more than fair, they hadn't seen each other in three years. But the possessive monster in his gut isn't quelled, so he probes deeper. “And after that?”

 

“Stiles, I spent most of my time outside of work talking to you.” He can tell she's forcing herself to hold back an eye roll, but instead of mocking him she just pulls his free hand closer and presses her lips to his palm. “There wasn't time for anyone else.” She adds, a soft afterthought. 

 

Stiles shifts closer to her, tangling their limbs together under the blankets. He closes his eyes and allows himself to smile for a moment before she speaks again. 

 

“Are  _ you _ seeing anyone else?”

 

Her voice even more soft than before, something vulnerable and fragile present in a way that breaks his heart. 

 

“Before you came to LA I was seeing Cora off and on, but not since then. It's just you.” He promises. 

 

“So why would you think I’d still be seeing someone else?” The vulnerability that had been present moments before contorts into annoyance that rolls off her tongue in waves, striking him with the force of it. 

 

“I don't know!” Stiles hisses. He can't tell if she's annoyed that he has the gall to ask her be cause he feels entitled to know, or if she's hurt that he'd think she was seeing someone else. 

 

In reality, it was probably a bit of both. 

 

“Look, Lydia,” He tries again. “I don't know where your head's at. You invite me here one minute and then ignore me for the rest of the week, and I know you don't  _ owe  _ me anything-”

 

Lydia shakes her head, pulling him closer to stop his babbling. “This has nothing to do with my  _ head _ , Stiles. If it were that simple, I never would have shown up in LA.”

 

_ Oh _ . Why did everything only make seem to sense when Lydia is the one who says it out loud?

 

“I’m an idiot.” He mumbles, jaw slack.

 

“Yes, you are.” She closes the distance between them and presses their lips together. Stiles forgets about feeling like an idiot and all the worry and jealousy and just lets himself  _ be _ .

 

It’s a glorious feeling when the weight falls off his shoulders.

 

* * *

 

There’s a moment, when she’s riding him nice and slow under the sheets, that the _ L word  _ nearly spills over his lips. She’s looking at him intensely  — her red waves falling over her shoulders and she looks like something he dreamed once. But Stiles manages to hold the words inside himself by falling forward and busying his mouth with her breast. Words like  _ that _ whispered in moments like  _ this _ always seemed to ruin things when it came to Lydia, and Stiles needed to hold onto her for as long as she was in his vicinity.

 

Especially when they'd just inched a bit closer to defining their relationship. Or, at least confirmed this wasn't just sex. 

 

So when she cries out and comes apart above him, Stiles following moments later, he thinks it’s a dream that she’s the one who says it first.

 

“ _ I love you. _ ”

 

Her words are soft as they ghost over his chest, and his hand stills from where it’s stroking her shoulder blade. His heart hammers faster against his ribcage, and he can’t help asking, “You do?”

 

He feels Lydia nod against him, her hair tickling his stomach. “Yeah.” She says, her voice small and quiet.

 

Stiles moves his hand from her back up to her chin, lifting it so he can look her in the eyes. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that?”

 

Lydia smiles and lifts up to press her lips to his. She doesn’t have to answer his question, just as he doesn’t have to say the words back. They both know the answer to those questions - which was that he’d loved her as long as he’d known her, and he'd would have waited a lot longer than that for her to reciprocate no matter what the circumstances. 

 

He leans his forehead against hers when she breaks off the kiss, his body still fuzzy from orgasm and love declarations. “What are we gonna do about it?”

 

Lydia shrugs, knowing he means the distance  between them.  “I don’t know.”

 

Stiles blows a sigh over her face. “Well, I’ll just move to Boston.”

 

Lydia’s pupils blow out and she pulls away from his face, a panic spread over her features. “No, Stiles you ca-”

 

He reaches out his free hand and brings her closer. “Lydia, I have no ties to LA. I’m being transferred to a new precinct in a few weeks anyway, I can just put in a request to get something on the east coast.”

 

Lydia bites her lip. “But your dad and Melissa and  _ Scott _ are only a few hours away.”

 

Stiles tightens his grasp on her cheek. “I’m pretty sure there are still these things called planes that do this magical thing and fly from the east to the west coast, sometimes even around the world.”

 

Lydia briefly narrows her eyes at him to acknowledge his sarcasm, but still doesn’t seem like she believes him. “I can’t ask you to do this.”

 

Stiles smiles.

 

“But you don’t have to ask. It doesn't matter where I am, as long as I'm with you.”

 

He leans upward and catches her lips, quelling whatever protests she may have had. Maybe they’ve finally won in the game they’d been playing for far too long. 


	9. ever after we lived, the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue chapter title is from No Place Like Home by Marianas Trench.
> 
> So this is officially the end! Please please please tell me what you thought of the story and tell your friends (..if you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it!)
> 
> Thanks again to Polina, Sibele, and Felipe for beta reading all/any of this story ♥ Special thanks to Rachel for Lydia's mug pun in the epilogue, and convincing me that cop!stiles is an evil trope I will never write again :)
> 
> Lastly, Happy New Year, and here's to Teen Wolf 5B premiering in 4 days! :)

“Stiles!”

 

Stiles groans and flops a pillow over his head, ignoring the sound of the voice trying to drag him from the bed. His body is weighted down with the reels of sleep, the mattress so comfortable it chains him there, the heat under the blankets keeping him perfectly toasty. There was no way he was getting up for at least another hour, especially not to go out into the chill of Boston in December.

 

He’s suddenly cold when the comforter is pulled from his grasp, more moans of protest leaving his lips, even though he hasn’t spoken a word yet this morning.

 

“Do you want to miss our flight?” The heathen voice comes again, yanking the pillow away too. Stiles blearily peeks one eye open to look at the culprit; her reddish waves lighter in the bright sunlight streaming in from the window. It makes her look like something from his dreams — venom filled and heart stoppingly beautiful.

 

He groans again. “But Lyds-”

 

Lydia crosses her arms and clicks her tongue. “Fine, if you aren’t out of this bed in 5 minutes, I’m flying home without you!”

 

Stiles knows it’s an idle threat, but that doesn’t stop him from jumping up faster than Lydia calling him by his real first name.

 

There was no need to scramble around to find clothes and toiletries to stuff into a suitcase — Lydia had bribed him with the promise of fun beneath the sheets the night before, so naturally, it had been done.

 

He has no idea how he survived without her before.

 

When he meets Lydia in the kitchen, she greets him with a smile and coffee — black, like his soul. She still knows better than to try and cook. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s because he puts up such a fuss when she does try, or if she secretly enjoys watching him work his magic in a kitchen.

 

Either way, it suits him just fine.

 

They don’t have enough time for anything elaborate for breakfast if they want to make their flight back to Beacon Hills, so after pressing his lips to hers, mumbling a quiet “morning, babe”, and taking a sip out of his star wars mug (‘ _I like my force like I like my coffee, dark’_ blazen on the front), he quickly whips up omelettes for them both.

 

It would be just like any other day for them if it weren’t for the need to get to the airport. Their morning routine is eerily similar; Lydia dragging him out of bed, black coffee and cooking breakfast, Lydia leaving for her morning commute to the lab, while Stiles stays in his pjs at the apartment to work on consult cases for various criminal departments.

 

It’s ridiculous how many times Lydia’s called him her live in concubine.

 

“What are you smiling about over there, Stilinski?” Lydia quips at him from the rim of her mug which reads: “Love is like pi: irrational and never ending”. Decidedly less obnoxious than his, but it still has a ridiculous pun because of course he’d given it to her.

 

“Just, thinking.”

 

“Uh huh.” Lydia smiles and finishes her coffee, moving away from the breakfast nook to put her cup in the sink. “Come on, Surprisingly Predictable. I am definitely not missing this flight.”

 

Stiles laughs at the nickname and clears their plates, Lydia gathering their luggage from where it’s sitting by the door.

 

“I’ll be out in a sec.” He waves her on from where she’s waiting for him in the doorway. Lydia nods before pulling her suitcase out of their apartment.

 

When he’s sure she’s out of earshot and definitely not coming back inside, he darts into their bedroom. He tiptoes — just to be safe! — to the dresser, where he his fingers close over a velvet box in the top drawer.

 

The small, but expensive container feels heavy in his hands, but it’s a good kind of weight. It holds the potential of a future, his future, _their_ future. Before he starts dwelling on it too much, he stashes the box in the pocket of his jeans and heads out.

 

They may be going back to where it all started, to where their families, the pack, all the people they love are, but Stiles’ _home_ is wherever she is.

  
And he’s willing to bet she’s as willing as he is to make it permanent.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr [here](http://savingsciles.tumblr.com)


End file.
